Fic -- Your Sins Into Me 1/5 (NC-17)
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Kurt stays late in the library of his school that night, researching for a history project that is due in two weeks. He likes to be prepared, and he likes to know that he has everything under control, so he gets this done without the company of his friends. Whenever they accompany him he ends up talking or singing, or a variety of other activities that are fun, but which lead to procrastination and late nights of finishing off school work just before it is due.
When he finishes, closing his books and making his way to his locker, the halls of McKinley are empty, leaving Kurt’s footsteps to echo among the cold metal of the lockers as he walks. The floor is scuffed from a long day of students trampling their way through, and Kurt can see more than one spatter of slushie across the walls and tiles. It seems that the janitors have given up on cleaning them as they happen.
His locker is, to his relief, free of derogatory commentary for once, and there is no tack taped to the backside of his combination lock. He doesn’t know who started that particular tradition, but it has been common for the past month, leading to many a sore finger.
Careful to pack lightly, only the necessary books for homework, Kurt shuts his locker and slings his bag over his shoulder. As he starts to turn around he hears footsteps at his back, moving with steady assurance. Before he can turn to see who it is, however, he is pressed forward with a powerful shove.
“Hey!” he protests, trying to get his arms between him and the locker to push back. He doesn’t get the chance; there are two large hands grasping at his elbows, holding him in place. The hands barely give at all as he struggles, and soon both of his wrists are held in one of his attacker’s fists.
“Don’t struggle,” a voice behind him says, and Kurt recognizes it instantly. He freezes for a moment in shock before disbelief and fear take over.
Karofsky has him pinned face-first to the lockers, arms held firmly together at the small of his back in one meaty fist. Kurt can feel the larger boy’s breath on his neck, raising the hairs there to attention.
“What are you doing?” Kurt huffs out angrily, pushing back with as much strength as he can muster. The body behind his only shifts slightly from the movement, and before Kurt can gain more than two or three inches of space between him and the lockers, he is slammed forward even harder than before.
Breath knocked from his body, Kurt can barely protest when he is abruptly spun around and propelled down the hall.
“Let go, Karofsky,” Kurt demands, trying to twist his wrists out of the tight hold they are in. As he is shoved forward again, Kurt stumbles, and he would have fallen if it wasn’t for Karofsky’s hold tightening, yanking his arms up roughly. Kurt lets out a choked off scream as he feels his shoulders protesting at the pull.
“Shut up,” Karofsky says, leading them further down the hall. Kurt had been at his locker when Karofsky had originally grabbed him, and now they are heading toward the area of the school where the gyms and locker rooms are.
Realizing where they are headed, Kurt feels the rush of fight-or-flight thrumming in his body intensify. “What are you doing? I don’t want to go anywhere with you, Karofsky. Just let me go.”
Karofsky’s grip tightens, and Kurt knows he’s going to have bruises. “I told you to shut up, Hummel.”
The door to the boy’s locker room is fast approaching, and Kurt tries to spin to the right, but Karofsky’s other hand comes up and grasps his shoulder tight, maintaining his hold.
Kurt can feel the blood rushing in his veins, pumping through his arteries; his whole body is singing with adrenaline and fear.
As Karofsky boots the door open and shoves him through with a rough two-handed push, Kurt yells out as loud as he can, hoping someone will hear. The rough shove has sent him tumbling to the ground, and his hands ache from catching his weight. Kurt scrambles to his feet, but before he can take more than two steps, Karofsky is on him again.
“Stop screaming,” growls Karofsky, crowding Kurt backward.
Scared and angry, Kurt backs away, trying to lead the bigger boy in a direction that won’t leave him trapped, and yells, “Then leave me alone!”
Karofsky’s eyes are angry, but with a calm directive underneath that scares Kurt more than any rage could have.
Kurt’s back hits a wall, and he tries to sidle sideways to escape, but Karofsky grabs his left arm, stopping him from moving. Without a second thought, Kurt swings his right arm up, bunching his hand into a tight fist to deliver a glancing blow to Karofsky’s jaw.
Karofsky lets go of Kurt’s arm to cradle his face, taking a single step back, and Kurt uses the opportunity to dodge around the bulk of the other teenager and makes for the door. He’s close enough to reach out and pull it open when an arm wraps around his waist from behind and tugs him back against the taller boy’s chest.
Arms pinned to his sides, Kurt struggles wildly and screams, “Let go!” He throws his head back, hoping to get lucky and break Karofsky’s nose, but he only manages to hit a shoulder.
As he is bringing a knee upward to drive his foot back into Karofsky’s legs, Kurt is released. He stumbles forward and spins, trying to keep track of where Karofsky is, and then he’s suddenly on the ground, a sharp, throbbing pain ringing throughout his body. The right side of his face is on fire, and his left shoulder stings from hitting the floor so hard.
When he looks up, he sees Karofsky standing above him, his hand still slightly elevated from delivering the hard backhand. Groaning in pain, Kurt starts to roll to his knees, knowing that he has to get away from Karofsky. Get somewhere safe.
Karofsky puts a foot to his ribs, not quite hard enough to be considered a kick, and pushes him over onto his back. The weight of the footballer’s foot is intense as he pushes it down on his chest, and Kurt fears that he won’t be able to breathe if the other boy decides to step down any harder.
Disoriented from the hit and winded from the pressure on his chest, Kurt doesn’t immediately realize what is happening until Karofsky has once again gathered his wrists together, holding them over his head. The other boy crouches down, and straddles Kurt’s waist, knees placed firmly on either side of Kurt’s chest.
Kurt is wearing a black tie, the one with a happy face on it, and Karofsky’s fingers tug at the material, undoing the Full Windsor knot with sharp movements that pull at Kurt’s neck. When he has the tie in hand, he pulls Kurt’s arms down in front of him and wraps first one wrist in a tight knot, and then the other, and then both together.
Throughout this, when Kurt realized what Karofsky was doing, Kurt had tried struggling, tried bucking the heavy weight from his body. It all crashes down on him, though, exactly what this is about, when he pushes up with his hips, trying to dislodge the other boy. And finds a thick hardness pressing back against him.
Eyes widening, and a shot of fear greater than before piercing him, Kurt lets out a noise of protest, and begs, “Karofsky, let me go. Please. Please, I won’t tell anyone what happened, just let me go.”
Karofsky just stares down at him, an expression of longing coming over his face, and then he dips down low, beside Kurt’s ear, and whispers, “No.”
When Karofsky grinds down onto him, pressing his hard length into Kurt’s stomach, and moans in his ear, Kurt tries to swing his arms up to hit him, tries to get a knee up to dislodge him, but he can’t. Karofsky has a couple of inches and about 60 pounds on him. He just doesn’t have the strength.
Kurt is saying, “Stop, please, just stop. I don’t want this,” over and over again, but Karofsky isn’t listening to him. Or maybe he is, because every time Kurt begs him to stop, he pushes down harder, groans louder. He’s getting off on Kurt’s begging; enjoying it.
After what feels like an eternity, Karofsky stills his hips, panting softly into the side of Kurt’s neck where his face is buried. “Mmm,” he moans, “you smell good, Hummel.” Karofsky keeps him pinned tightly to the floor as he brings a hand up to fist tightly in Kurt’s hair, pulling the trapped boy’s head back and exposing his throat. “Such a prissy little fag.”
As Karofsky licks up the side of his neck, laving at his ear, Kurt feels tears start to form, collecting in the corners of his eyes. “Please. Please, don’t.”
Karofsky pulls back, sending a dark smile down at Kurt. “Don’t cry, Hummel, you’ll enjoy this,” he says, brushing a finger under Kurt’s eyes to wipe up the tears. Kurt tries to jerk his head away from the touch, but he can’t move far, and his head spins sharply with the movement.
Trailing his finger down the side of Kurt’s face, down the smooth expanse of his throat, Karofsky reaches the top button of Kurt’s shirt, which he proceeds to pop open. Kurt feels Karofsky’s hands working at his shirt, feels as his fingers trail along his chest as they go, and it is as if Karofsky is leaving a path of slime and disgust everywhere he touches.
As he undoes the last button, Karofsky yanks Kurt upward by his arms, forcing the slighter boy to stand as he does. Kurt’s head swims from the abrupt change in position, and he stumbles along as Karofsky turns him with a painful grip on his shoulders and manhandles him toward the showers.
Kurt doesn’t even get a chance to try and run before he’s pressed up against the half-wall of a shower stall, its bricks digging painfully into his stomach. Karofsky’s dick is pressed up against his lower back and the taller teen thrusts against Kurt even as he reaches up and pulls the shirt down, off of Kurt’s shoulders to rest as far down his arms as it will go.
“Damn, Hummel, who did you fuck in a previous life to get skin like this?” Karofsky is running his hands over Kurt’s upper back and shoulders, his calluses rough on Kurt’s skin.
“Please stop. Stop. I don’t want this - I don’t want you touching me.” Kurt’s throat is getting sore from begging, but he can’t stop. He doesn’t want Karofsky touching him, and he doesn’t want his hands petting across his body, groping without any remorse.
Kurt thought it couldn’t get any worse, that Karofsky’s wandering hands and trailing lips across his back were the most disgusting and vile things that could ever happen to him, and then he feels hands at his pants, pulling at the button and dragging down the zipper.
“No!” he yells, bucking back against Karofsky, struggling against the hold keeping him captive. “No! Don’t, Karofsky!” The hands don’t stop, though, and soon he feels cold air rush around him as he is fully exposed. “Stop, damnit!”
A hand presses into the middle of his back, effectively trapping his hands beneath his own body, and bending him over the wall. Karofsky’s other hand is on his bare buttocks, caressing over them, and Kurt, through the nausea and tears, can almost feel the reverence steaming off of the other boy.
Part Two